Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The alarm went off at four AM, and the dragon on her couch made a sound like something dying.
Marina sat up in bed, heart pounding, before she remembered. The bond. The summit. The beautiful, awful man currently groaning in her living room like she’d personally attacked him with the concept of mornings.
This is your life now. For twenty-seven days.
She pulled on her robe and shuffled to the doorway.
Alessandro Draven was sprawled across her couch in a way that should have been impossible given its size.
His legs hung over the armrest. One arm dangled to the floor.
His designer shirt, the same one he’d worn yesterday, because apparently billionaire dragons didn’t pack pajamas, was rumpled beyond redemption.
He cracked one eye open and glared at her with the intensity of a man who had never experienced 4 AM from this side and was deeply offended by the concept.
“Turn it off.”
“The alarm?”
“The sun.”
“It’s not up yet.”
“Then why are you?”
Marina bit back a smile. His exhaustion pressed against her awareness: genuine, layered, the kind that went beyond one bad night on a too-small couch. He hadn’t slept well in years, she realized. The weariness was old, a constant companion he’d learned to ignore.
“I’m a baker,” she said. “This is when bakers wake up.”
“I thought you were exaggerating.”
“Why would anyone exaggerate about waking up at four AM?”
He pressed his face into the couch cushion and made another dying sound.
Marina left him there and went to shower.
The bathroom was barely big enough for one person, and Alessandro’s presence had invaded it completely.
His toiletries colonized her sink: Aesop face wash, a Kiehl’s moisturizer she was absolutely going to try when he wasn’t looking, a razor that probably cost more than her toothbrush collection.
His towel hung next to hers on the rack, crisp white against her faded blue.
Even his soap smelled expensive. She’d read the label, because she was nosy: Le Labo Santal 33, ninety dollars for a bar the size of a deck of cards.
She hated that she’d already memorized the scent.
She showered fast, unable to ignore the forty feet between them, the dull ache in her skull that said too far, come back.
Shampoo, conditioner, a desperate attempt to feel human.
The whole time, she could sense him on the other side of the wall; his groggy irritation slowly sharpening into something more alert as the coffee kicked in.
This is so weird. This is so, so weird.
By the time she emerged, Alessandro had migrated from the couch to the kitchen table, laptop open, coffee already made.
He’d also changed into a fresh shirt, this one a white Oxford that probably needed dry cleaning, completely ridiculous for a bakery kitchen, and combed his hair into something approaching respectability.
“How did you…”
“I found your coffee maker.” He didn’t look up from his screen. “It took three attempts. Your instruction manual appears to have been written by someone with a grudge against clarity.”
“I don’t have an instruction manual.”
“I noticed.”
“My kitchen is fine.”
“Your kitchen is chaos with a stovetop.” He finally glanced up. “Your measuring cups are in four different locations. Your flour is stored next to your cleaning supplies. And you have no fewer than six spatulas, none of which appear to be organized by any discernible system.”
“They’re organized by vibes.”
“By vibes.”
“It’s a valid organizational method.”
His irritation hummed at the edges of her awareness, but also something else. A grudging acknowledgment that the coffee was good, even if he’d never admit it out loud. His pride was truly remarkable.
She poured herself a cup and got to work.
The rhythm of baking was usually meditative. Flour, water, salt, yeast. The dough coming together under her hands, smooth and elastic.
But she couldn’t find the rhythm today. Alessandro’s presence kept disrupting it, not through anything he did, just through existing. The heat of him. The tap of his fingers on the keyboard. The way her awareness kept snagging on him like a sweater on a nail.
And the emotions. His frustration bled into her every time he read an email. His stress when his phone buzzed. His desperate, grinding determination to solve whatever problem had brought him to Sweetwater Cove in the first place.
You’re stressed, the bond seemed to say. Now I’m stressed. Now you’re more stressed. Now I’m—
“Stop that,” Marina said.
Alessandro looked up. “Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re feeling. It’s very loud.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re spiraling. I can feel it.”
“I don’t spiral.”
“You’re spiraling right now. About…” She concentrated on the bond, trying to parse the tangle of emotions. “Money? Something about money draining away?”
His expression went flat. Closed.
“Stay out of my head.”
“I’m not in your head. You’re projecting.” She turned back to her dough, kneading harder than necessary. “If you’re going to have feelings, have them quieter.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
The sarcasm was sharp enough to draw blood.
They worked in hostile silence for the next hour.
Marina tried to lose herself in the work.
Croissants: butter folded into dough, again and again, until the layers were paper-thin.
Baguettes: shaping the loaves with practiced hands, feeling the gluten stretch and resist. Her grandmother’s honey lavender scones: the recipe she knew by heart, the one that still didn’t taste quite right no matter how carefully she followed the steps.
But every few minutes, the bond would flare with another wave of Alessandro’s stress.
Financial projections that made his stomach clench.
Emails that made him grip his pen too hard.
A phone call he sent to voicemail that left him radiating frustration so intense Marina nearly burned her fingers on a hot pan.
“This is impossible,” she muttered.
“What is?”
“Baking while you’re having a feelings emergency every three minutes.”
“I’m not having a feelings emergency.”
“You’re having multiple feelings emergencies. I can feel them. They’re very disruptive to my croissant lamination.”
He stared at her. “Your croissant lamination.”
“It requires focus. And you are the opposite of focus.” She waved a floury hand at him. “You’re like… emotional static. Interfering with my signal.”
Something unexpected surfaced from his side of the connection. Amusement. Quickly suppressed, but genuine.
“I apologize for interfering with your signal.”
“You should.”
“I’ll try to have my existential crises more quietly.”
“That’s all I ask.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile she’d seen from him.
Then he stood up, muttered something about finding a glass, and walked directly into her open oven door.
The pain was immediate and shared.
Marina gasped as heat lanced across her palm.
Phantom pain, but vivid enough to make her drop the tray she was holding.
Croissants scattered across the tile. Alessandro clutched his hand, smoke actually curling from his nostrils, and for one horrible moment she thought he might set her kitchen on fire.
“Don’t you dare,” she said.
“I wasn’t—” He breathed through his nose. The smoke dissipated. “That wasn’t intentional.”
“Neither was the oven being hot, and yet.”
She grabbed the first aid kit and pointed at a chair. He sat, which surprised her. The Alessandro she’d met yesterday would have insisted he was fine, that he didn’t need help, that he could handle it himself.
But his exhaustion bled into her, too deep to maintain the facade.
She cleaned the burn gently. It wasn’t serious, barely more than a bad sunburn, but his skin was so warm. Dragon blood, running hot even at rest.
“You need to sleep more.” She kept her focus on the bandage.
“I need a lot of things.”
“Sleep is free.”
“Sleep requires…” He stopped. Started again. “I don’t sleep well. Haven’t in years.”
She felt it land in her chest like a stone dropped from height. Nightmares that left him gasping. Generations of failure pressing down. A curse that never stopped taking.
He’s so tired.
“My grandmother had insomnia,” Marina said. “She used to bake when she couldn’t sleep. Said the dough helped quiet her mind.”
Alessandro looked around the kitchen. The flour. The warmth. The bread rising in its proofing baskets.
“I can see why.”
The bell over the bakery door shattered the moment.
“MARINA!” Bea’s voice echoed through the shop. “If you don’t come out here right now, I’m going to assume you’ve been eaten by your new dragon roommate!”
Marina closed her eyes.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Bea Thornwood stood in the middle of the bakery, purple hair practically vibrating with excitement.
“So,” she said, the moment Marina emerged. “You accidentally mated a dragon. That’s so you, babe.”
“How do you already know about that?”
“Honey, everyone knows. Mrs. Whitmore has a group chat.” Bea’s grin was incandescent. “Also, Estelle sends her regards. She’s very ‘concerned.’ By which I mean she’s delighted and wants all the details.”
Alessandro emerged from the kitchen, bandaged hand visible, expression suggesting he’d rather face a firing squad than a curious witch.
Bea circled him like a shark. “Oh, Marina. You didn’t tell me he was pretty.”
“I haven’t had time to tell you anything.”
“That’s fair. You’ve been busy.” She poked Alessandro’s arm. His indignation flared, sharp and immediate. “Solid. Good bone structure. Very broodable.”
“Did you just call me broodable?”
“Take the compliment.” Bea turned to Marina. “So? How’s the bond? Can you feel everything he feels? What’s he feeling right now?”
“Irritation.” Marina didn’t miss a beat. “And regret. Lots of regret.”
“I can speak for myself,” Alessandro said.
“And yet you’re not.” Bea grinned. “Strong, silent type. Classic.”
“I’m not—” He stopped, visibly recalibrating. She could practically feel the moment he realized that arguing with Bea was like arguing with a hurricane. “I’m going back to the kitchen.”
“Smart man.” Bea watched him retreat. “He’s going to be fun to break.”
“Please don’t break my accidental mate. I have to live with him.”
“No promises.”
The door chimed again before Marina could respond. Mrs. Whitmore, eyes bright with curiosity. Mr. Callahan from the bait shop. The Blackwood twins, who should definitely be in school. Half the town, it seemed, filing in to stare at the dragon in Marina’s kitchen.
Alessandro looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him.
“Ground rules,” she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the stairs. “Now.”
In the apartment, she shut the door and leaned against it. Alessandro’s relief at escaping the crowd flooded through her, and with it, grudging gratitude that she’d been the one to end it.
He really does hate being watched.
“Designated spaces,” she said. “You stay on your side, I stay on mine. The couch is your territory. The bedroom is mine. We meet in neutral zones only when necessary.”
“Neutral zones?”
“Kitchen. Bathroom. The three square feet of hallway connecting them.”
“Agreed.”
“Bathroom schedule. I shower first at four-fifteen. You can have it after. We do not comment on each other’s shower habits.”
“I wasn’t planning to comment on your shower habits.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” She ticked off another finger. “Third: no discussing feelings. We can sense them whether we want to or not. That doesn’t mean we have to talk about them. If you’re upset, I’ll know. I don’t need a monologue.”
“I don’t monologue.”
“Good.”
“Though I’d argue that you’re currently monologuing about not monologuing.”
She glared at him. He looked almost smug.
Alessandro was quiet for a moment. Then: “I have one addition. If one of us is in genuine distress, not annoyance, not frustration, actual distress, the other should know. For practical purposes.”
It was reasonable.
“Fine,” she said.
“Fine.”
They stood there, five feet apart, the bond humming between them. The afternoon light slanted through her small windows, catching the flour still visible on his collar, the exhaustion still visible in his eyes.
“This is still a nightmare,” Alessandro said.
“The worst,” Marina agreed.
But when they went back downstairs and he spent the next three hours helping her work, she started to wonder if nightmare was the right word.
He carried flour bags without being asked, stacking them with a neatness that spoke to hidden depths of organization.
He restocked the display case, arranging pastries with unexpected care.
When a customer asked for a recommendation, he actually gave one.
“The lemon bars are surprisingly good,” and satisfaction hummed warm and smug across the bond when the customer agreed.
His designer shirt accumulated a fine layer of powder. His perfect hair fell across his forehead. His sleeves got rolled up at some point, revealing forearms that Marina absolutely did not notice.
And the persistent tension in the bond slowly, gradually eased.
It wasn’t gone. The awareness of him was still there, that constant pull like a compass pointing north. But the irritation faded. The hostility softened.
This is temporary, she reminded herself. Twenty-seven days. Then he’s gone.
But right now, watching him carefully align croissants by size, it was hard to remember why that mattered.
“You’re good at this,” he said later, watching her frost cupcakes. Each swirl identical to the last. “You don’t seem shy at all when you’re working.”
Marina’s cheeks warmed. “I’m not shy when I’m baking. The kitchen is safe.”
“I understand that.” He leaned against the counter, watching her hands. “I feel the same about contracts. Clear rules. Logical structures.”
She looked at him, flour on his collar, exhaustion in his eyes, guard down in a way she hadn’t seen before.
A flicker of admiration reached her, his this time, directed at the sureness of her hands, the way she moved through the kitchen like she belonged there.
And beneath that, so faint she might have imagined it, interest.
She turned back to her cupcakes and pretended she hadn’t noticed.
But she had.